


Between The Pages

by Mildredo



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 00:23:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2249019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mildredo/pseuds/Mildredo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine really likes his job at the library, but he likes the cute, well-dressed guy with curious reading choices even more. Librarian AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between The Pages

Blaine is so grateful for his job at the library.

He loves New York. He loves the rush of the city, the thrill and the danger. He loves that he gets to go to school in the greatest city in the world, the centre of the  _universe_ , and do the things he loves most every single day.

But it gets exhausting. Existing in New York is the single most exhausting thing Blaine has ever done. And that’s why he loves the library.

The library is quiet and peace and freedom. It’s a silent world filled with a million opportunities, infinite things to learn and discover. It doesn’t stay silent, of course, and Blaine wouldn’t want it to. People chat in hushed tones, huddled against bookshelves, trying to be as quiet as possible. Children who haven’t learned yet that libraries are places to be hushed sometimes shout and whoop, followed by red-faced parents mouthing hurried apologies. People use the computers and students bring their laptops in and hole themselves away at a carrel for the day. Occasionally, the phone rings and the whole room jumps.

It’s not supposed to be a completely silent place, at least not outside the designated zones, but people stay quiet anyway. It feels wrong, somehow, to talk above a whisper in a library, or to talk at all. But it’s quiet enough to get schoolwork done between actual work, and the head librarian is cool with him bringing his homework with him. She knows Blaine well enough to know that neither will have an impact on the other, and so he slides his Macbook onto the desk beside the static PC to work on a paper or brings a messenger bag filled with books to read and take notes from.

Blaine works every hour he can find. It’s been two years and he’s finally earning enough that, with the use of some savings, he can afford his tiny studio apartment in Manhattan, halfway between school and work.  Walking through the library doors feels like relief every time. He gets to sit behind the huge wooden desk at the head of the main room, overlooking his domain. He uses the computer system a little, but there’s rarely a problem that he needs to fix and most of the issues and returns are automated now. Sometimes he’ll demonstrate the machines with the touchscreens and glowing blue lights to patrons who don’t know how they work or find them a little intimidating. He’ll joke with the older folks that the machines will take his job soon and he enthuses with the little kids about how it’s just like a futuristic robot. He issues library cards and deals with late fines, which is his least favorite part. He hates asking for money for a service that’s ostensibly free, even though they knew the rules when they decided to return their books late. More often than he should, he waives the fee because he feels bad for the customer, but he’s learned ways of telling the people who genuinely don’t have the money to pay for their mistake apart from the people who just want to save a couple bucks.

The regulars are the best kind of visitors. There are the older folk who didn’t know which way of a computer was up before they attended the library’s computer education sessions, but now come in three times a week to check their emails, video chat with their families, and update their facebook statuses. There are the kids who come in with their parents after school finishes every Thursday and sit behind the desk with Blaine while their parents browse, telling him all about the books they took out the week before and what they learned at school that week, before putting their books in the robot and running to the children’s section at the opposite end of the room to pick out new ones. There’s the Namibian family who arrived in the US speaking almost no English but, six months on, they’ve been attending classes and reading books and are learning quickly. They always thank Blaine for his patience and help and he assures them it isn’t a problem. They have three children under seven and all of them are almost fluent in English now. They bring him drawings and little stories they’ve written and sometimes they translate back and forth between their parents if they’re struggling for the words they want. Blaine thinks they’re all kind of amazing and he hopes the English teachers upstairs have encouraged the parents to try to keep them bilingual, because it’s such a wonderful skill to have. He has always resented his parents for letting him slowly forget how to speak Tagalog once he learned English.

But Blaine has a favorite regular, even though he’s sure he isn’t supposed to have favorites. There’s a guy, maybe about his age, but it’s difficult to tell. He comes into the library twice a week, on Monday mornings and Wednesday lunchtimes. Sometimes he’s there at weekends but those visits seem to line up with finals season. He might be there more often; Blaine doesn’t work every day, as much as he tries, and maybe he visits on his days off as well. He’s tall and trim and walks with purpose, holding his head high and never stumbling with the machines. He’s always dressed impeccably, like he’s a model or a mannequin or something. Never a fold or a thread out of place. His hair is a medium brown with swipes of blonde, swept up high and perfect even when it’s raining. He has beautiful, piercing eyes that focus intensely on whatever he’s reading and long, delicate fingers that brush lightly across the spines and labels until he finds what he wants. He’s been visiting twice a week, sometimes more, every week for a full year, and Blaine has been completely in love with him for eleven months and three weeks. There’s a rainbow flag pin attached to his satchel and a small red ribbon on his lapel so Blaine feels confident that his crush isn’t completely misguided, but that’s not the point. They’ve spoken exactly once, a couple of months ago, when he was looking for something specific that wasn’t on the shelves. Blaine had taken his card so he could get a copy sent over from another library, reserved especially for him, and had spent a second too long lingering on the printed name above the membership number he needed to type into the system.  _Kurt Hummel_.

His most frequented sections aren’t busy areas of the library but if Kurt is browsing, they’re all Blaine can pay attention to. Blaine tidies them especially just before he’s due to arrive so they’re neat and perfect. Kurt spends a lot of time perusing 646 (sewing, clothing), 677 (textiles), and 687 (clothing manufacture). He occasionally visits 822 (English drama) and 440 (Romance languages; French). Once in a while, he’ll duck into 641 (food and drink) and come out with an armful of cookbooks. Six weeks ago, he went straight to romantic fiction on both visits and spent the whole day in a far corner, reading paperbacks with pastel colored covers and people kissing on the cover. Blaine doesn’t work in the fiction section, but it’s separated from his room by a wall with big, open archways, and he could see him in an armchair. The books were always in front of his face but his hair peaked high above the pages and it looked as though he kept reaching up to wipe away tears. Blaine wanted to go over and ask if he was okay but it was a busy day and he couldn’t find time to leave his post. When the line of customers finally died down, Kurt had gone.

Sometimes he shoots Blaine a smile as he passes the desk, sometimes a little wave. Blaine will smile or wiggle his fingers in response but he’s already gone, deep into his chosen aisle. He wants to know everything about Kurt. He wants to know the reasons behind his myriad choices. Does he study fashion or just have a burning interest in clothes and fabrics? Does he speak French or is he learning? Can he cook or does he look longingly at the pages and wish he could? He wants to offer help but Kurt never needs it, or at least never asks. He never looks so much as slightly lost. He knows what he’s looking for and plucks the books from the shelves with ease, rarely even stopping to check the catalogue. He seems to have an instinct for these things and Blaine admires that. He has the same instinct. He wants to talk to Kurt about books, to learn what else he likes to read and why he sat in that chair in the corner and cried at cheesy romance. He wants to pore over recipes with him, memorize dialogue from Pinter and Ayckbourn and Russell, learn the difference between taffeta and organza, silk and satin, velvet and velour. He wants to learn everything about him, to find out what goes on underneath that quiet, determined exterior. But first, he has to speak to him. And that’s proving difficult enough.

He finally,  _finally_  gets the opportunity on a chilly December morning. The computers have gone down. Every single damn computer in the building has gone down. There’s an army of IT guys on the case and desperate handwritten notes have been plastered in the windows telling potential library visitors that, while they’re still open, there’s no computer system for the foreseeable future and perhaps they’d like to visit one of the other nearby branches, where they’ll still be able to browse and return their books in a building that doesn’t currently appear to be operating in 1963. A few people have been in regardless and Blaine is running a handwritten log of their returns and issues to enter into the computer when technology is finally restored. It’s a Monday morning but he’s been too occupied to expect Kurt. He had to find a handwritten system that was simple enough to write out quickly but clear enough that, when he went to type it into the computer, he still understood what all the acronyms meant. He had a stack of reshelving to do once he’d pried the doors of the returns machines open, and the children’s section really needed tidying. The thought  _Monday equals Kurt_  had crossed his mind as he walked in that morning, but was quickly replaced with  _this is a nightmare why do the computers hate me quick gotta write up some signs before the masses descend and everything is chaos_.

He’s on tiptoes, stretching to reach the top shelf in 740 (drawing and decorative arts) because he left the wheeled steps back in 720 (architecture) and he  _really_  can’t be bothered to walk back and get it. He hadn’t realized just how many top-shelf books were on his cart at the time, but now he’s determined to get them all back in their rightful place without height-adjusting technology. He hears a soft chuckle from the end of the aisle as he stretches but before he can turn to confront his audience, 746.44028 GON Contemporary Machine Embroidery slips from his outstretched fingertips and lands corner-first in the middle of his scalp before falling pathetically to the ground. It’s not a thick book, thankfully, but it had gained enough speed to hit Blaine with some force and the shock of it, more than anything, makes him stumble. He almost falls back against the shelf behind him, but he’s caught by strong arms and guided to sit on the floor, and when he’s seated and the rubber ducks circling his head subside, he realizes that it was Kurt.

It still is Kurt.

“Thank you,” he says weakly, blinking hard. He tries to stand but Kurt pushes him down by the shoulders and sits beside him, bending his knees and tucking his feet underneath one thigh.

“Just stay still for a while,” Kurt says softly. Blaine lets his shoulders relax and rests his palms on the carpet for support. Kurt looks satisfied and swiftly, elegantly moves to his knees, his thighs perfectly vertical. He leans across Blaine to gently inspect the top of his head with careful, practiced fingers, parting the hair despite it being plastered together with all too much gel. He’s close, touching, caring, and Blaine feels his heart race. He’s only mildly concerned that it could be due to shock; he’s almost certain it’s due to Kurt. He smells like floral detergent and a deep, woody cologne, not a common combination but it’s one Blaine instantly adores. Kurt sits back on his haunches and looks Blaine in the eye.

“You’re not bleeding. There’s going to be a bruise, probably a lump, but stay here and I’ll see if I can find something to stop that before it starts.”

He’s off before Blaine can say anything, standing effortlessly despite the impossibly tight, black skinny jeans encasing his legs. He returns in moments, victoriously brandishing a cold compress and a glass of water.

“I knocked on the office door,” he says, sitting back down and handing Blaine both items. “Put one on your head, drink the other. Your choice.” Blaine laughs at that and puts the compress on his head, feeling the cold, wet fabric instantly sooth the throbbing spot just right of his parting. He sips the water and lets Kurt continue. “It’s really busy in there. Like a war room, all these people crowded around the computers arguing. And they got annoyed that a customer was trying to walk in without regard for the ‘private office’ sign on the door. But I told them that one of their staff just had a book fall on his head and he’s okay, he’s not about to sue for a bump on the head, but I’m trained in first aid and I’ll take care of it if they’ll please let me use some of their supplies. And they were so busy and irritated that they just let me go for it. But they said to tell you to go upstairs later and tell… Susan. She has to file an incident report.”

Kurt pauses for breath and sits back, crossing his legs and leaning back on his palms to mirror Blaine’s earlier position. Blaine puts his glass of water on the carpet on front of him and leans back on one hand, keeping the other on the compress. He smiles even though it’s December and there’s cold water trickling down the back of his neck, because Kurt is even more beautiful close up. He looks so serious when he’s browsing the shelves or reading, but when he’s being personal the corners of his mouth quirk upwards and his eyes change from grey, steely determination to a glittering clear blue.

“Thank you,” Blaine says again, then laughs at the repetition.

“You said,” Kurt winks. “Did the book knock the rest of the words out of your head?”

_No, but you did_ , Blaine wants to say. He settles for a simple “no,” and follows that with “I’m Blaine, by the way.”

“I know,” Kurt says, smiling at Blaine’s frown. “In the office. They asked me which employee was hurt and I told them that I didn’t know his name but he’s got dark hair with so much gel in it that I’m surprised the book didn’t ricochet off his head. They told me that you were definitely Blaine.”

“What a glowing description,” Blaine says, smirking to show he’s joking. God, he hopes Kurt knows he’s joking.

“Hey, I could’ve mentioned the seasonally inappropriate bowtie or the shirt that clashes with the socks, but I didn’t.”

“I’m a fan of sartorial irony,” Blaine defends, fingering his Easter egg bowtie. It isn’t really true – he just grabbed one out of the drawer in a hurry that morning and didn’t realize his error until he was on the subway, but he’s decided to own it. Besides, he knows Kurt definitely has an interest in fashion; he can’t appear as clueless as he really is.

“I believe you,” Kurt says like he doesn’t. “I’m Kurt.”

“I know,” Blaine grins, enjoying a small moment of payback. He takes the cold compress off his head, finding nowhere to put it. He rests it on top of his half-empty glass and continues. “I’m the all-seeing, all-knowing librarian.”

“I didn’t realize omniscience was in the job description,” Kurt says.

“Yep. Along with psychic powers and supersonic hearing.”

“Wow, they really are setting the standards for librarianship impossibly high these days.”

“Only the best superheroes need apply,” Blaine says, and Kurt laughs. Blaine feels his stomach twist with joy at that:  _he_  made Kurt laugh. “Am I allowed to stand up yet?”

“Carefully,” Kurt agrees. He stands up first and offers out both hands to Blaine to hold onto. He takes them tentatively; they feel soft and delicate underneath his own skin, covered in papercuts and inkstains and bitten around the nails. Kurt tugs gently and helps Blaine to his feet, then bends down to pick up the offending book. He’s a little taller than Blaine is and can easily reach high enough to slide it back onto the shelf.

“You okay? Feeling steady?”

“Feeling fine,” Blaine assures.

“Use the steps next time,” Kurt scolds. “If they’re only here for decoration, it’s not working. I don’t want you being hit in the head by an encyclopedia. You’d die. And I quite like seeing you behind that desk every time I come in here.”

“You do?” Blaine says, unable to help his smile.

“Yeah. It’s nice to have something reliable in this city. And you’re not bad to look at either, terrible fashion choices aside.”

Blaine rolls his eyes and tries not to blush, but he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. He promises Kurt that he won’t try to reach beyond his means again, especially not around encyclopedias, and Kurt hums his approval. He walks Blaine back to his desk and makes sure he’s seated and comfortable, but inhales sharply when he sees the time glow on the clock radio someone has set up in front of the PC while it’s broken. He has to rush out of the library, not forgetting to call out a reminder for Blaine to speak to Susan as he leaves. Blaine wheels his chair over to the window and watches Kurt run through the snow, hail a cab, and jump in.

He’s still a mystery. But he’s kind and funny and he definitely implied that he thinks Blaine’s attractive. Despite his literal and figurative headaches, that knowledge is enough to keep Blaine’s heart feeling light for the rest of the day.

 


End file.
